The Greatest Fire Of London
by Lily Joanne Potter
Summary: Jim likes stories.  Jim likes history.  Jim likes acting.  But the thing Jim likes the most, is plotting the fall of Sherlock Holmes.    Rated M for language and violence.
1. James Moriarty, Hi!

Stories.  
>What a wonderful way to tell tales, to see the light shine on small children's faces from the excitement, and the awe of the magic from the nonsense. What's even more wonderful is seeing the light fade from their eyes as you kill their parents.<br>Alright, a little harsh, and maybe a bit too sadistic. But who cares? Not me, oh no.  
>James Moriarty. Nice to meet you.<p>

Now, I'm not usually the type to brag, but give me a story and I'll show you it in a way you'd never imagine. Fairy tales mostly; the childish, the better. History though, wow, that's a new level – some are like fairy tales, however, they actually _happened._ Imagine witnessing the gore of the Battle of Hastings, or the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. So alive, so vivid. Sometimes I like repeating history for fun.

Are we all comfortable, children? Because today, I will tell you the story of how I burnt the heart out of Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Rent

"Sherlock, are you even listening to me? Mrs Hudson said if the bills aren't paid by the end of the day then we're out! Out!" Poor John - trying so hard to get Sherlock's attention. There was no chance though, at least not whilst Sherlock was fiddling with the dials on his microscope. Experiments in Sherlock's view always came first, seeing as neither money nor people were normally an issue to him.

John huffed again, throwing his hands up in the air, mumbling to himself. "Fine, we'll live on the streets." He turned again, now hunching over to shout directly in Holmes' ear; as if that would work. "I don't know whether you've noticed, but I'm broke!"

There was too much noise. Was John really trying to make it impossible for Sherlock to work? He didn't bother taking his eyes away from the lens as Sherlock said "Take my cheque book." Another tiny turn of the dial, and the damn slide finally came into focus.

A slight pause gave Sherlock the impression that John was lost for words. "I already have it! Do you honestly even keep a tab on your money or- do you know- how can you- fine, yeah, I'll go pay Mrs Hudson. You really are a dick. I mean it, Sherlock." It was obvious that John was annoyed without his speech, even a fool could notice his fists clenching in his pockets, or his eyebrows furrowing. Not that it mattered to Sherlock; he simply continued with his work.

When John left the room, the silence was eerie. He'd only gone next door, but there wasn't a sound from the flat. The occasional click or scratch of the equipment and Sherlock moving the slide disturbed the quiet, so perfect conditions to work in. Yet there was something niggling at the back of Sherlock's thoughts that distracted him still. How was he to work like this? He doubted it very much that he'd get any more done, and he hadn't slept for over 65 hours…

The couch seemed suddenly welcoming. Resting his eyes for five minutes wouldn't hurt. Besides, the cells under the light of the microscope didn't need to be alive to be examined. 5 minutes.

Sherlock slid off the edge of the stool, abandoning the equipment. Knowing John, he would see Sherlock asleep, leave him be and head out to Sarah's. The two weren't dating – although it didn't even seem like it when they actually were – but John still visited her after being pushed into the friend-zone. Not to John's acknowledgement, Sherlock was pleased that John had even managed to keep Sarah as a friend. He trudged over to the sofa, walking over the coffee table than around it (the route was an extra 4 steps, and that was too much effort), and collapsed with a sigh.

Usually it took at least 3 hours to fall asleep. That was the problem with thinking properly – you never stopped, not even to sleep. Thoughts of his past cases, habits and things what make people tick, historical events and murders based on them; there was a never-ending list of questions and answers in Sherlock's brain. It was why Sherlock had no or little sleep, and preferred to sleep only when he was on the brink of exhaustion. Laying there for hours can be tedious, when he could be doing something much more important and worthwhile.

Fortunately, the murder case Lestrade had put Sherlock on was enough for the 3 hours of boring nothing turn into a mere 5 minutes.

* * *

><p>Mourning women surrounded the coffin, handkerchiefs clutched in their fists. Men were trying to keep a straight, calm composure as the corpse was lowered into the grave. John wasn't trying to keep his tears back, and Lestrade looked close to a breakdown. Many people generally looked uncomfortable, like Anderson and Sally. They knew that they didn't belong here.<p>

Sherlock viewed his funeral from a far distance. It was almost sickening, seeing the aftermath of his stunt on the roof top of St. Bartholomew's. Especially when John nearly fell to his knees at every mention of Sherlock's name.

The man leading the service looked up from Holmes' lifeless body.

"Wake up, pretty boy." Moriarty smiled, throwing a bloodied white rose onto the coffin.

"Wake up…."

Shooting his head up caused him whiplash. His breathing was uneven, pulse too fast for his liking and saliva levels increased. It wasn't in Sherlock's nature to ever dream, never mind the dreams turn into nightmares.

To his left was the real Moriarty, sat in John's chair.

(This is the part where it gets exciting. Sherlock's so dull, but don't worry. I'm in the story now.)

"Oh good, you're awake. I hope you don't mind that I made myself some tea. I've been waiting a while." Telling the truth, James had a cup in his hand and was sipping away quietly.

On the sofa, Sherlock sat up. His neck ached; probably from a mixture of the whiplash and the uncomfortable position he had been sleeping. "What do you want, Moriarty?" There was little point in asking how he got in, or anything other than this. The only time James visited was for something he wanted, or to warn Sherlock of his next game.

Sherlock somewhat amused Moriarty. How a man could be able to know everything, yet be so ignorant of his intelligence. It was simply fascinating. James gave him a small, sweet smile. "Me? I want you to die. That's not asking for too much though, is it? You did after all pretend to die for me; why not do it for real?"

Of course, James didn't expect Sherlock to agree. So it was no surprise when he replied "That's unlikely. Must I remind you that you also 'died'?" Hints of sarcasm laced his voice as he asked.

"This isn't a joke, Sherly." Between them was an uncertainty, making each man as uncomfortable as the other. "Have I ever told you about how I like stories?"

Before he gave James an answer, Sherlock really considered what it was he was asking here. It was obvious enough without Jim having to say he liked stories. Many of his tricks and plans were even based around the things. But why ask then? Scanning the room confirmed he wasn't here for just a chat. A can of petrol by his foot.

"Let's just agree on one thing," Sherlock smirked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, "we both know you adore them."

James smiled back. "Of course I do, they're so fascinating. I like real stories too, you know. History. You've heard of the Great Fire of London, right? Of course you have."

"1666. But we're not here to discuss history, Jim. You're here to re-enact it." This was easy to guess now James had pointed Sherlock in the right direction. The idea of it though made Sherlock a little irritated with Moriarty suddenly.

"No shit, Sherlock!" The ache in Jim's thighs flared up. He had been sitting in that chair for an hour. So he stood, throwing the fragile china cup to the floor. It left a stain, but no matter. A little bit of fire would soon cover it up nicely. "You're not stupid after all."

Sherlock flicked his eyes up and sighed. "At Baker Street too, I like your style."

"Yeah, well it couldn't have been anywhere else really." He nudged the shattered cup with his toe, in a bored like state. Jim was getting bored, and wanted to get the show on the road, as it were.

"Too many people will die, Jim. I can't let you do that. This between you and me, this feud you've seem to have made up."

"Oh Sherlock!" Jim whined, "We've already had this conversation! People die! GET OVER IT." Becoming angry wasn't when Moriarty was the most frightening; it was his softer, gentler side that was more effective. So he gave a cheerful smile to Sherlock after his shouting. "No matter. Sweet dreams, Sherlock Holmes."

At Jim's words, Sherlock frowned. "What?" He asked, but a hand clamped around his mouth and nose. Strong and sturdy grip – obviously someone with a strong build. The rag stunk of chloroform. Very mainstream, Jim, Sherlock thought as he began to twist into an awkward position to avoid the grasp. It wasn't enough though; black circles and fog hindered his vision, and it wasn't long until Sherlock was out cold.


	3. Burns

An explosion of heat hit Sherlock the moment he awoke from his slumber. Suddenly his collar felt tight, though two buttons at the top were undone, and he finally acknowledged the sweat dripping off his forehead. Surrounding Sherlock was tall, bright and blinding flames. He was uncomfortable and felt sick. That said, James had so politely sat him back on a chair in front of the telly. How thoughtful.

His head ached, and his vision wasn't at its best yet. But he had to move fast – the building looked frail enough to collapse. So he pushed off his feet, causing him to sway. Oh, the pain in his head was immense! Sherlock lifted a hand to his head, and pulled back to show blood on his fingers. Jim must have hit him, call it pay back.

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock shouted, roaming through bits of furniture that had become scorched, and climbing over parts of the ceiling that could no longer stay up. Though his head was still spinning, Sherlock had to stop himself from propping himself up by the hot wall. The floorboards creaked under Sherlock's weight, having had the power of the heat weaken them. There was no noise from upstairs, so Sherlock focused on downstairs. He almost fell down the last three steps from the heat and spinning. "Mrs Hudson?"

A very faint whimper came from the room next door; the one room that happened to have the most smoke coming from it too. Sherlock thumped his shoulder against the door to avoid opening it by the over-heated door handle that would have burnt him. In this room, the flames flicked higher up the walls and the smoke was thicker. But through the smoke, a dark figure could be seen, cowering in the corner.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson coughed, trying her best to pat away the flames that began to lick up her legs and catch her dress. "Get out, silly boy!" Agony was an understatement for Mrs Hudson. The flames had melted away bits of the skin on her legs, and other parts crisped and flaked from the lack of water. All of this was making her eyes water from the pain, causing a sort of blindness. If Sherlock hadn't called out, she would have had no clue he was there.

Despite her protests though, Sherlock ignored them. There was no clear path ahead to reach her and the fumes plus the heat were making Sherlock's head dizzy and his vision blurred. More of the ceiling begun to creak and groan under the stress of the flames. If they were both going to make it out, Sherlock needed to get to her now.

With no time to plan a route, the consulting detective began treading carefully. Stuff everywhere that was on fire wasn't helping; he'd take one route to discover that the smoke hid more obstacles, just for Sherlock to move back to the beginning again.

But finally after wafting his arms, some kind of path that was the least obstructed revealed itself. Carefully now, and very gently distributing his weight evenly on the creaking floor, Sherlock headed along the only visible route. "Mrs Hudson, you have to come towards me too. Meet half way!" He coughed.

Above him the ceiling gave an almighty groan. The whole of the upper floor collapsed onto him, with wooden boards hitting his head. One final blow knocked him unconscious for the second time that day.

Martha didn't want both of them to die. No, Sherlock was young and had a wonderful life ahead of him. There was nothing Mrs Hudson could do to save him now, nor herself.

Mrs Hudson cried.

She cried for John and Sherlock. She cried for her grandson, born two weeks ago. She cried for her daughter. She even shed a tear for her wicked husband. This flat held so many memories for her, good and bad, and seeing it destroyed was simply heart breaking. But she felt that is was fitting to die here with the building – like all good Captains that went down with their ship, Martha would go down with hers. With the last of her pride and bravery, Mrs Hudson accepted her death with open arms. Walking into the heart of the fire, she cried out once more as the flames devoured her body.


	4. Promises can be broken

The wait was excruciating. There was no sign of Sherlock or Mrs Hudson emerging from the flames. John pushed past someone and managed to knock them over – he didn't see who, but John definitely didn't care right now. There was no way John was letting Sherlock die in those flames.

If it wasn't for the anonymous text he received asking 'Are flames meant to be that high after 5 minutes?' that had sent him running back to 221B, then John would still be at Sarah's, complaining about Sherlock and his annoying habits. How he felt so guilty now.

"Please," he begged to an officer who was keeping people at a far distance, "my friend, he's in there!"

A look of concern flashed across the officer's expressions, before he moved his gaze from the man clutching at his arm to another officer. "Sir, we're doing the best we can."

"Well you're not trying hard enough!" The rage bubbled inside of John. It wasn't in his nature to become angry, but this was Sherlock on the line here.

He couldn't lose him. Not again.

John tried again, having to raise his voice further. "Just send more people in, or something!" But there was no point in his suggestion. As John shouted, four men in full fire suits came half running out of the remains of 221b Baker Street. One man was carrying a small thing in his arms, but it was so burnt it was beyond recognition from this distance. Two other men held another gangly looking frame, bloodied and covered in soot. Even with the two men, the person's arms and legs dangled down from his awkward proportions and size.

By the time the officer realised that John had begun running at full speed towards the firemen, John was already shaking the limp thing in their arms. "Sh-Sherlock…" The movement caused a moan to escape from the scalded man. His dark thick curls were sizzled, and his cheeks were scarred. Sherlock looked fragile and so weak, but it didn't stop John from shaking him violently. If the pain meant he would wake up, then god, John had to do it. "Wake up, you stupid bastard."

All Sherlock wanted to do was the opposite. He wanted to sleep. To drift off into nothing and just close his eyes. But his body wasn't cooperating with his brain, as his eyes barely opened to meet John. "I…" Soon after his lips ignored the protests from his thoughts, yet his voice was croaky and dry from the fumes.

"No, shut up." The tears were blinding John, stopping him from seeing Sherlock properly. He had to squeeze his eyes to get rid of them.

This wasn't right. This wasn't the Sherlock he knew. Never would Sherlock give up, but this limp thing showed nothing but defeat in his eyes. Maybe it was his stubbornness, or just will power. John didn't want to think about being alone again. He couldn't help it.

With another wince, Sherlock tilted his head to look fully at John. "…love…" The throbbing in his head was getting duller now, and darkness circled his vision. Sherlock wasn't going to deny it to neither himself nor John – he wanted to leave. Be gone. No, what he wanted more was for this to be a bad dream, and to wake up, upside down as his feet dangled awkwardly over the top of the sofa. With John sat in his arm chair with a coffee, reading the news. Sighing as he spotted Sherlock waking, and telling him that sleeping like that can cause serious injuries. Typical John.

"Don't you dare, Sherlock Holmes!" His voice rose in volume, as shouting seemed the best way to get through Sherlock's thick skull that he wasn't going anywhere, not if John could do something about it. John's tears finally broke through, causing him to be a shrivelling mess by the side of his dying friend. His hand found its way to the gash on Sherlock's matted and bloodied hair, untangling the curls possessively and moving them out of his eyes. "You're going to be okay, please, oh God, Sherlock…"

There wasn't much movement from the man in someone else's arms. John shook him again, and took a slow gulp to suppress his sobbing. "Sherlock."

"Sherlock, wake up."

"Ho-Holmes stop acting like a fu-fucking child!"

"WAKE UP!"

"Please don't do this."

"You promised you wouldn't go."

"You promised me."


End file.
